


Distraction

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Pre-Tough Love, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation, Spanking, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:56:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of demons in Crestwood, and the night promises to be long and sleepless. Good thing the Inquisitor has company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

Something in Crestwood makes Kat's nose itch.

The rest of her itches, too. She wants to get this  _done_ —the villagers can’t hold out forever, and that rift is only getting worse—but she knows better than to forge on after a day of fighting through muck just to claim this blighted keep. They're all weary, and the rift will be there tomorrow.

She shifts a little closer to the fire. It's nice to have a roof over her head, at least. They usually make do with tents when they're away from Skyhold. There's even a bed in here, and Harding's scouts brought over supplies when they saw the flag go up; she can be comfortable beneath her blankets tonight, at least, even if there's no chance she'll sleep soundly with so many demons roaming the countryside.

The door creaks. She whirls, scooping up her staff as she turns.

Bull raises his hands. “Easy, boss.”

She exhales in a rush, letting the lightning on her hands die. “Sorry. You surprised me.”

He has to duck down and sideways to fit through the doorframe, accounting carefully for his horns. Once inside, the heel of his boot kicks back, shutting the door behind him.

Maker, even when it's pouring rain, he doesn't wear a shirt. “Aren't you cold?” she demands, crossing her arms over her chest. The fire can only do so much to warm her; the wet has trickled beneath the collar of her coat, into the toes of her boots.

His lips hitch up at the corner, offering her a slanted smile. “Could be warmer,” he agrees.

The suggestion in his words is obvious. A different chill slides down her spine, more pleasant by far. It's been days since they were last at Skyhold—days and days since she last had the pleasure of being taken apart by him, but—

But she stinks of mud, and her hair is damp, and she can't stop thinking about all those demons just outside these walls, waiting for a head distracted enough to slip into. She knows it's not that easy, but the fear sticks to her like a cold sweat.

He's unbuckled the brace on his leg, and now he toes off his boots, watching her.

“What?” she asks—too defensive by far, a hard and bitter word.

He makes his way across the room to her, shaking his head. “You've been on edge since we got here.”

“In case you hadn't noticed, there are demons  _everywhere_ ,” she snaps. “You can't possibly be comfortable, either.”

“Could be better,” he acknowledges. “None of them are getting in here, though—not without a lot of screaming out there first. Your soldiers know what they're doing.”

 _Her_ soldiers. She still isn't used to that. People standing between her and the enemy because they think she’s chosen, because she’s their leader, because they believe she’s going to save the world—when was the last time anyone believed a  _mage_ was going to save the world?

But that’s not at issue, here. Bull is right: they’re good people, and they will protect her to their last breath, whether she feels guilty about it or not.

She sighs, tipping her head back to look up at him. “I know they do.”

“Good,” he says, amiable as ever. “Then  _you_ are free to get comfortable.”

It's an invitation. She knows she can refuse. She sometimes wonders if she  _should_ refuse, especially here, where she could be needed at a moment's notice...but isn't that exactly why she wants this?  _Needs_ this? Otherwise, the tension would never leave her shoulders. She can feel her body begging her to give in.

“Yes,” she says finally. “I suppose I am.”

He cocks an eyebrow down at her. “Then why are you still dressed?”

Was she cold, just a moment ago? Now she can feel the heat rising to her cheeks, slowly coloring her skin. There's a low rumble of warning in his voice; she has agreed, so she had best obey, and she is  _happy_  to. She bends to pull off her boots and socks, and tries not to think too hard on how closely he watches her.

Coat next. She shrugs it from her shoulders, hangs it over the hearth where it can dry. Were she alone, she would remove her shirt next, but—she's seen the appreciative look he gives her breasts, and decides to leave that for last. She frees the laces on her breeches instead, slides them down over her thighs, and hangs them over the hearth, too.

He has left her by the fire; she hears his footfalls recede to the bench at the foot of the bed, the soft grunt as he sits. She doesn't look up, but she knows he's still watching. She frees the clasps on her shirt one by one, taking her time, and lets it fall from her shoulders. The fire's warm against her bare skin, but she knows she isn't bare enough, not yet; she slides her smalls down her legs and unhooks the clasps on her breastband, and then she waits, hands behind her back to hide their trembling. They’ve done this a handful of times now, but getting all her clothes off is still a source of some anxiety for her—should anyone burst in (random scout or, Maker forbid,  _Cassandra_ ) they will know exactly what’s going on, there will be no hiding it, and—

She knows there ought to be no shame in that. She certainly isn’t ashamed of  _Bull_ ; how could she be? When she first woke up in chains after the Conclave, she’d have never guessed that her biggest source of comfort in her new life would be a Qunari mercenary, but he is, and she’s  _grateful_.

No, she loathes the idea of what the Orlesians puttering around Skyhold might say if word got out—that she would have to grit her teeth and bear their derision for him, all for the sake of civility. She’d sooner drop a lightning bolt on their heads.

“Asaaranda.”

His voice returns her attention returns to the present, forcefully pushing hypothetical scenarios of fried nobility out of her head. She's desperate to get lost in this—to drive any inkling of worry or fear away with the pleasure of his company. She's desperate for him, too—it isn't ever until he gets her alone that she remembers  _how_ desperate, how her chest aches, how her heart thrums, how she  _wants_ him, not just his hands on her body and his lips on her skin but his smile, too, shot sideways like a conspiracy—

“Come here,” he invites, and she obeys, padding across the rug until she stands before him. “Help me with this.” He tugs at his harness. He doesn't  _need_ help—she knows that—but it's part of the game, obeying his requests, and so she slides the leather free of the buckle carefully, gently, pulling the whole piece off until his chest is bare.

“Hang it up,” he says, tipping his head toward the fireplace.

She turns before he can see her smile; he just wants to look at her  _ass_ , and really, she doesn't mind. There's a playfulness to this that she loves—an openness that she always craved, maybe, but could never ask of any partner before him. Taking her time, she hangs the harness and returns to him. He watches the sway of her hips, eye half-lidded.

There's a silk handkerchief in his hand, inky black and woven between his fingers; she eyes it with interest.

“I can't tie you up here,” he muses. “Wouldn't be safe, considering—but you can still kill demons with a blindfold on.”

She bites her lip on a smile, remembering. “I can.”

He reaches up; she closes her eyes. He ties the blindfold as deftly as he had that day in Haven, minding her hair.

She hears him stand, though all is dark behind the blindfold. He takes one of her hands in both of his and leads her, carefully, to the bed.

“Lay down on your back,” he instructs.

She’s slow without her sight, but she crawls to the center of the bed by touch alone and settles amidst the blankets and pillows.

“Arms out, legs spread.” She feels terribly open—he must have a truly unimpeded view of her body—but she does as she's bid. “Good. Now. Don't move.”

As soon as he’s told her  _not_  to, all she can think of is moving—scratching an itch on her ankle, shifting her arms to get more comfortable, but she stays still, trying to concentrate on breathing slowly and evenly. Her focus wavers, drifting to where he must surely be looking at her—and then further, back to her fear of being interrupted—until staying still is truly a chore, one she cannot be free of soon enough.

After a few agonizing minutes—though her sense of time can hardly be relied upon—the mattress dips with his weight. He turns her hand until her palm faces up, and then, with a deliberate finger, slowly traces one of the creases in her skin. The fate line, she thinks, a gentle curve to touch the life line and then away.

He moves to her wrist: the softest touch, more fingers now, eliciting an involuntary shiver. She’d had no idea the soft skin on the inside of her wrist was so sensitive; in the wake of his fingers, he brushes his lips over her flesh, and it’s an effort not to curl her hand into a fist. She can feel the beginnings of a faint heartbeat between her thighs. The anticipation has her coiled tight; she has no idea what he has planned, only that he isn't touching her nearly enough, but her skin is pebbled with goosebumps and her nipples are stiff in the cool air, anyway. She fights the desire to shift closer and seek more contact.

He traces the line of her collarbone, following it into the dip at the base of her throat. Her breath catches. She hears him chuckle—low, pleased—and then the pad of his thumb presses to her lip, releasing it from between her teeth.

“If you could see yourself,” he says, “you wouldn't be worried about  _my_ needs.”

 _Old Iron Bull is just fine_ , he’d said, a satisfied twist to his mouth, and she’d hardly known what to make of the declaration. It seemed to her that he was getting the short end of the stick in this bargain, but it certainly doesn’t sound that way right  _now_.

Her eyes open, but the blindfold shows her nothing. Her lip slides free of his thumb, and his fingers trace the line of her jaw instead; the shell of her ear; the curve of her throat. Her breath is too quick. It's so little sensation, but she craves more of that unexpectedly delicate touch—

Warmth closes around one hard nipple, a tongue flicking out to meet her flesh, and she gasps at the sudden, firmer contact. Her back nearly arches off the bed, but she remembers—with what must be the last sense available to her—that she must stay still. A whine gets caught in her throat; his tongue lazily circles. When his mouth releases her, he offers a puff of cold air in parting, shocking her damp skin.

The heartbeat is louder now. His delicate touch returns, tracing down the valley between her breasts. Unhurried, steady, until he reaches the softness of her belly—then the bed shifts, and she feels him move to settle between her legs. She's slick with anticipation, panting, hoping—

But he is slow here, too, following the curve of her hipbone, tracing lines on her inner thighs. He bypasses their meeting point entirely, running hands down her legs instead, spreading her limbs wider when he reaches her ankles.

She's lost any coherent train of thought; she's a quivering mess, straining to restrain herself with the last shreds of her self-control. He shatters that so easily—surely he's been playing with her for less than five minutes, and she already craves release so badly she could scream—

The lightest touch of them all lands between her legs—just above the point she wants him to attend so badly.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, and he doesn't sound winded in the slightest: a soft, teasing query, made to someone who can no longer fathom his incredible patience.

“Yes,” she begs, “ _please_.”

He doesn't give her  _exactly_  what she wants, of course. Fingers stroke through her short pubic hair, dancing over her skin but never slipping between her spread lips. Lines traced just at the divide between  _outer_ and  _inner_ —she keens, hopeful—but then sliding away down her thigh. Her hips buck up, trying to win the contact back.

“Come  _on_ , Bull,” she groans, exasperated.

His touch stops right where it is. “You moved,” he says—his voice not soft and low and teasing anymore, but hard and clipped.

She freezes instantly; her heart, which had been racing somewhere in the region of her throat, drops very suddenly to her stomach. His weight shifts, leaving her alone on the bed.

“Up,” he commands from her right.

She rises, her continued arousal leaving her clumsy, and clambers down to stand beside the bed. He brushes past her and takes his time resettling on the mattress; she hears him shuffling against the headboard.

“Come here,” he orders, and she finds she doesn't like those words half so much in this new tone.

There's dread slithering into her belly, but she forces herself to move. As soon as she's found her balance on the bed again, he takes it from her; he tugs, and she falls forward across his thighs. Before she can get her hands beneath her and rearrange herself, he bends one leg beneath her, forcing her ass into the air while she braces her weight—tipped forward now—on her arms.

The slap to her backside hits a mere second later, stinging; she cries out, the sound muffled in the blankets. Before she can muster more than this wordless protest, he mirrors the slap on the other side.

He's certainly not hitting as hard as he could—if he did, she would be terribly black and blue in short order—but every strike still stings. She knows she deserves it; she broke the rules. She isn't unprepared for it, either—she did not go into this blind—but this is her first real transgression, and it fills her with shame that she got greedy, that she disobeyed.

And it  _hurts_ , yes, but it doubles the ache between her thighs, too, and the combination has her crying into the sheets, emptying her of her frustration and confusion, replacing it only with the sting and burn, the ache and pulse of her needy body.

When the blows stop falling, his fingers caress her inflamed skin instead—the gentlest touch, but every stroke stings and sends shivers racing up her spine. She breathes, hard, into the blankets. The blindfold is damp with her tears.

“Good,” he says, and his voice has returned to a kinder tone. “You understand why you were punished.”

It is not exactly a question, but she thinks he's inviting her to answer. “Yes,” she says, her voice hoarse. She is languid across his lap, strangely comfortable, mind adrift, drawn back only by the soft stroke of his fingertips over her sensitive flesh. “I disobeyed. I was impatient. I'm sorry.”

One finger runs up her inner thigh. “You were preoccupied. Do you feel better now?”

With a little effort, she takes stock: her backside tender, but the rest of her muscles relaxed; molten heat pooling between her thighs, unhurried; her head in the here and now, rather than chasing down the past and future.

“Yes,” she sighs, relieved.

His finger slides, at last, between her lips, drawing her wetness up to her clit. “Good,” he murmurs. While his finger strokes her, slow and even, his hand goes on caressing her ass, eliciting little reminders of pain. The combined sensations are overwhelming; she can scarcely catch her breath, her toes curling into the mattress, looking for purchase to thrust herself more efficiently on his fingers—

He takes them away; she bites her lip on a groan of protest.

“Up,” he says.

She rises shakily to her knees, hears him move, and just when she thinks she'll fall down if she doesn't lie down, he loops his arm around her waist and pulls. She collapses to the bed, and he tugs her back, snug against his chest, his body curled around hers, one arm a pillow beneath her head. She might tease him about spooning if it weren't for his cock, nudging between her thighs. He tugs her legs apart, just enough, and then he's sliding slowly into her.

She  _does_ groan at that, but it's a liquid, relieved sound, throaty and shocking and unfamiliar. His fingers resume their attentions between her thighs, offering firmer pressure now, moving in tight circles. His teeth nip at her shoulder, drawing her flesh between his lips to suck. She cranes her neck, offering as much access as she can.

“Please,” she gasps. “Please, please,  _please_ —”

The pace of his fingers quickens, even as the slow roll of his hips remains steady. Her back arches, tight as a bowstring; he rocks deeply into her, and she's undone, a cry of release tumbling from her lips. He groans—soft and long and directly into her ear, sending judders of pleasure through her—and jerks into her once more, his grip on her hip painfully tight while he comes.

For a moment, they don't move at all, catching their breath while he softens inside her; then he reaches up to untie the knot of her blindfold.

Even the dimly-lit room is too bright now. She blinks, trying to adjust. When he eases out of her and rolls to his back on the mattress, she turns over and hides her face in his chest, closing her eyes again.

She feels the rumble of his laugh. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, and she drifts, warm and content and sleepy, all thought of demons driven from her head. His hand slides down her back; when his fingers graze her still-burning backside, she starts.

“I like this color on you,” he comments; she can hear the smirk in his voice.

“I liked it,” she admits, sort of mortified to hear herself say it. “I mean—I know it's supposed to be  _punishment_ —”

“Not in the traditional sense,” he reminds her. “You disobeyed, yes, but that's part of the fun.”

She snorts. “I know. I'm just...surprised. I didn't know if I'd like that amount of pain.”

“I knew you would.”

 _Smug asshole_ , she thinks—but  _fondly_ , because she's glad that he knows her. She lifts her head, chin resting on his chest, and considers finally opening her eyes, but just as she's about to try it his arm pulls her a little closer and his head dips and he's kissing her, lips soft and easy on hers until she's breathless again.

She finally cracks an eye open when he pulls back. “We have demons to kill in the morning,” she points out.

He lets her fall to her back on the mattress and props himself up on one elbow, grinning. “You'll sleep better when I'm done with you,” he promises.

She believes him—especially with her legs hooked over his shoulders, his face buried in her cunt, the handkerchief gagging her instead of blinding her so the entire damn keep doesn't hear her screams.


End file.
